


For Those Who Forget

by lovetincture



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:21:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29153493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: A man has dinner with a monster, and it's nice. That's maybe the worst part about it.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	For Those Who Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a nebulous kind of S4 space where Elias doesn't go to jail

1\. A meal shared on the eve of disaster

Jon didn’t know how he’d ended up here. Oh, he _knows._ He could retrace his steps from choosing his outfit with a little too much care to grudgingly picking up a bottle of wine at Tesco on his way over. It’s not particularly good wine. He doesn’t know why he bothered.

He doesn’t know why he bothered to check and recheck his appearance in the mirror, smoothing out his hair and straightening his tie. It’s a bit of a lost cause, anyway. Everything’s rumpled from its time packed away in boxes, and Jon doesn’t own an iron. He doesn’t know why he came here at all, except, of course, that he does.

2\. All’s fair in war and war

Elias’ house both is and isn’t what Jon imagined it might be—not that he spent any particular amount of energy on the imagining, and that’s not a denial; that’s just the truth. When he pictured Elias anywhere, as you sometimes do, it was in a particularly posh flat. He would recline in a hideously expensive armchair, understated but impeccably designed, in front of a crackling fire. There’s a glass of red wine in his hand. He’s reading a book, although in recent times, Jon has amended this mental image.

In his imaginings, Elias now gazes pensively into the fire, his eyes unfocused, watching faraway scenes that play out behind them. Maybe he watches the Institute. Maybe he watches Jon.

Jon’s right on a few counts—the furniture looks extremely expensive, the sort of pieces you feel grubby just for looking at. Elias’ flat is particularly nice, with wide open rooms and high ceilings that make him forget the cramped, close London streets outside.

It’s cozy, though, carefully designed with personal touches Jon didn’t think Elias capable of. He himself certainly isn’t capable of it. There are throw pillows and candles, blankets and trinkets that make Elias’ expensive flat feel like a home. It’s the kind of space that demands that you sink into it, the kind of space Jon has only ever seen rarely, in other people’s dreams.

He sighs when he steps inside, taking off his shoes as soon as he notices the shoe rack by the doorway. He thrusts the bottle of subpar wine at Elias with a graceless, “Here” and resents the comfort straight down to his toes.

“Thank you, Jon,” Elias says, more gracious than the peace offering deserves. “I’ve already got a bottle breathing, but I’ll save this for later.”

He ushers Jon in, pressing a glass of wine into his hand and leading him into the living room.

“Dinner’s almost done,” Elias says by way of explanation, leaving Jon alone to sip his wine and stare into the fireplace that’s a different shape than what he might have imagined.

Everything’s already prepared, waiting on him like Elias knew exactly when he would arrive, and of course he did. Jon could protest, but he hasn’t been eating lately. Abstaining from taking statements has left him feeling anemic and thin, so he sinks into the couch and takes a sip of his wine, relieved from the strain of having to stay upright. The wine is dry and delicious. It tastes like oak, and if Jon closes his eyes, he can see the tree it came from, breathe the sticky loam of a forest that no longer exists.

He drinks more of it than he means to, staring into the fire and letting the hypnotic dance of the flames lull his mind, letting them carry him farther away from himself. The time slips through his fingers, and by the time Elias comes to get him, he’s half asleep and more of the wine is missing than he remembers drinking.

“Time for dinner,” Elias says, his voice quiet and unobtrusive. He stands beside the couch, his hand resting on the top of it near Jon’s head. Jon wonders how long he’s been standing there. His shadow is carefully angled away so as not to startle Jon. Jon wishes he didn’t know that.

“It smells good,” Jon says, because it does. The warm scent of mushrooms and butter fills the air, and Jon feels like he could fall asleep at any moment.

“Thank you,” Elias says. “It’s a recipe I’ve been wanting to try for a while now. Tonight seemed as good an occasion as any.”

“I didn’t know you cooked.”

“When I have time.”

It feels strange to talk like this, like friends—or if not friends, then colleagues, or at least people who don’t want to kill each other. Elias plucks Jon’s glass out of his hand, and Jon sighs into the familiar feeling of irritation, another comfort like a blanket. He assumes it’s so he won’t drop it on the rug, but Elias just refills it and sets it at the table in the space Jon assumes is meant to be his.

“Please, sit.”

Jon does, feeling like a soft-shelled crab exposed, tired and dozy and uncomfortably aware of the feel of glasses on his face, his clothes against his skin. He feels uncomfortably corporal and blissfully warm all at once. He is mired in the sensation of having a body. His stomach grumbles underneath layers of heated, rumpled cotton.

Elias disappears into the kitchen again, and Jon tips his head back to look at the ceiling, waiting.

3\. Something about atheists in foxholes

The food tastes just as good as it smells, a fact for which Jon internally curses Elias. It’s not fair for one man to be so good at so many things, but he supposes that’s the benefit of living so many lives. The mushroom risotto melts on his tongue, and the wine cuts through the fatty richness perfectly. He isn’t sure how much he’s had to drink—Elias keeps refilling his glass when it starts to grow low, but he’s feeling loose-limbed and expansive, as though his mind is ballooning out to fill the high-ceilinged voids of this place.

Music plays low in the background—something Jon can’t quite pick out. He’s never had much of an ear for music. He can tell classical from jazz from the top 40s pop Tim likes to listen to. Liked. He doesn’t know the distinctions. This is something classical, probably.

He thinks of Tim, and his mood doesn’t quite recover. Elias tries to draw him out, but the tricks don’t quite work the same when you know what the magician is doing with his hands.

The music plays them out.

4\. I’m not sure I agreed to this

Jon isn’t sure how he ended up in Elias’ bed—no, you are; you are, stop lying already—Elias’ cologne is stronger up close. Jon gets a good whiff of it as Elias kisses down his neck, between the distraction of soft lips moving against his skin and the scratching drag of stubble. It smells less elegant this way, less subtle and unknowable and more like woodland spice doused over any other man. Not that Jon would know.

He thinks he can detect a faint scent of rot in all the layered notes. Or maybe not. Maybe his mind’s just playing tricks on him—his mind, Elias’ mind. Hard to keep track of the difference sometimes. These days.

Even when you can see the magician’s hands, sometimes it’s hard to find the rabbit.

5\. Mea maxima culpa

He’ll lose this in the end. He’s absolutely sure of it. But for now, he’s got to wash the smell of cologne out of his clothes, his hair. He thinks it’s seeped into his skin and lights up a cigarette to smudge it away.

For now, he walks down the street, feeling eyes prickling on the back of his neck. Elias might be watching from the window. He might not be. Jon’s not going to turn to look. He walks for one block, two, five—walks toward home, knowing it’s too far to go. He’ll call a cab eventually, maybe. The autumn air is turning, already too cold against his skin.

He looks in the faces of the people that he passes and imagines he sees Elias in every one. The weak light of morning only makes him feel tired. It’s not much to go on, but it hurts his eyes all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/lovetincture) if you wanna.


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